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Bob Spencer
with the lobster traps stacked
against the green fence,
under the old willow,
and it will be made of sea wrack
and sea foam, and painted the color of islands,
and flash in the light like a gull’s wing
in the morning,
and there will I wile my time,
lost to the world of plans and contingencies,
carefully sculpting my stories,
becoming a legend.
It seems you must give up your long-term lease
On being right and wronged, righteous and hurt.
No doubt there's someone else who would be pleased
To lord over that haughty piece of Earth.
Move to a cottage of humility,
Cross-breezes, and a pantry full of jars
That hold your faults, preserved for scrutiny.
Live with the wretchedness of who you are.
Chop kindling from the stump of your assumptions,
And ask forgiveness from each simple wall.
It won't be long before you sense resumption
Of basic gratitude for life, for all.
Of course you'll want to pray again, poor sod.
But keep it basic: pray there is a God.
Back for a holiday, I visit
My home, that old cottage,
Conduct the new tenant over the grounds,
Say, “Here are the onions, back
From last year, I planted these.
A little ground fire in spring
Will weed through the blackberries,
In summer they’ll go to eight feet.
The sod here is cleared, for last summer
I took shovel, planted peas, lettuce,
Carrot, red radish. The sour kind
Of clover grows here on the lawn,
Boon to salads. Wild flowers,
Good for a week in the house.”
(By the wall, a garrulous stalk,
Alien seed pods clumped in the sun,
I turned my face not to see
Flowers or leaves;
'Tis the autumn eve
With the falling light.
How solitary the cottage stands
By the sea!
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.
And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.